


The Sky, the Sea, the Birds Between

by HerenorThereNearnorFar



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aurora Borealis, Birds, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Married Couple, Multi, Polyamory, Separation, The Dubious Philosophy of Angels, Valar Critiques
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 08:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19147165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerenorThereNearnorFar/pseuds/HerenorThereNearnorFar
Summary: "Hail Earendel, brightest of angelsSent over Middle-earth to men."Eönwë plays messenger as Elwing and Eärendil begin to adjust to their new lives as a lighthouse keeper and a star respectively.





	The Sky, the Sea, the Birds Between

He comes to her after Eärendil leaves, full of sympathy but not understanding. That is the problem with creatures of the Blessed Realm, with the Ainur and their kin. Gods, however small in stature, reckon with love differently than the Children of Ilúvatar.

“My lady, bearer of the light—”

Elwing is tired, and Elwing is angry, and Elwing is almost entirely alone, both in an existential and a physical sense. She snaps at him. There is no one to watch and he’s old enough to handle some harsh words.

“Have you and your king not stolen enough from me? Must you now presume on my time as well?”

Eönwë bows his head. “My apologies. I came to ask if there was anything I could do for you. You know I am at your service.”

The mountain air is cold against Elwing’s cheeks. She finds she does not like Taniquetil much. “Don’t you have a war to plan?”

He smiles, still infuriatingly kind. “Indeed, brave daughter of Doriath. But I am only my lord’s herald, and plans can be made without me.”

Elwing planned wars once, at least as wars were measured on the edges of existence— small, petty efforts at defense and survival. She knows that a true leader keeps every soldier close and well informed. “Yet my well being requires your immediate attention.”

“It would be indecent in the extreme to ignore you. You have done all the free peoples of Arda a great service. I can fetch someone else, if you would prefer another- Ilmarë perhaps?”

Elwing thinks of Varda’s handmaid with her dark eyes full of stars and her hair bound with a scarf of the heavens. Her beauty is the beauty of the night sky over the sea, overwhelming and distant.

It would be hard to shout at Ilmarë.

“I would not make you go all that way,” she says, and then remembers that the Maiar consider the boundaries of the physical to be an opt-in sort of thing, “My answer will remain the same, so don’t bother. I am…coping.”

Eönwë inclines his head, almost bowing. “Not for nothing are songs sung of your strength. May I see you home, at least?”

She has been staying with the Teleri, her kin, until a home can be built for her. Alqualondë is no short distance away.

In the night sky, Eärendil burns, a distant white flame. Her heart aches.

“Only back to the city,” she decides.

Blessedly, Eönwë holds his tongue on the journey. Even his footfalls are silent, though he is taller than she is, full of muscle, and looks to be made of something sturdier than flesh- weathered metal, perhaps, or stone. When they reach Alqualondë, however, one of her distant relatives (there are so many of them, and they all watch her with a desperation that she recognizes— for she too was raised being told to miss a family she barely remembers anymore) comes to greet her, and exclaims over Eönwë. There are pleasantries to be exchanged with this messenger of divinity. The new star in the sky is remarked upon in a tone of barely disguised glee.

“Lady Elwing has had a long day,” Eönwë says, interrupting her silver-haired cousin, “Right now she needs space.”

The well-meaning hordes retreat, chastised.

“You will call if you need anything?” Manwë’s herald asks softly. “Many here owe you dearly and you will not do without.”

“I will,” Elwing lies, and leaves to find her empty bed and lie in it. She is alone in the palace, at least, for everyone else has come out to watch the bright star on the horizon.

 

 

When he next comes to her, it is at her home. Despite everything, the seaside still feels like a refuge and alone in her pale tower she has learned to reorient herself in the world.

It helps that the beach is different than Sirion. Her home there was set among chalk cliffs and narrow, sandy shores warmed by the sun— one last, hidden, unspoiled place in a world growing ever harsher. Here the beach is wide and pebbled, the cliffs dark sandstone, and the ground beneath her feet solid rock. The wind coming in from the sea bites at her nose and cheeks.

She cannot imagine her children playing in this desolate place. She does not hear their voices when she turns around anymore. It’s probably for the best. The Valar tell her they are alive, but nothing more.

(She left letters for them with Olwë, her uncle, as she pleaded with him to take up the sword and fight against the encroaching darkness. In the end the Teleri agreed to take the armies of Valinor on their boats. Olwë swore he would give the notes to Finarfin, who will take them to the boys. It’s all she can do, for she will never walk again in the Outer Lands.)

It is in this place for learning loneliness that Eönwë arrives, and in this place that he gives her glad tidings.

“We are to take supplies to the Hope Star, who rises bright in the morning and sets brilliant in the night,” he says, looking at her with his pale eyes. “Would you like me to bring something to your husband?”

Elwing gawks at him for a moment, almost forgetting how Quenya works (it is not her first tongue, but he does not seem to know much Sindarin and she is still learning Telerin). It has been some time since she last entertained visitors.

When she does speak, it is harsh, like the cry of one of the sea birds circling ahead. “I would like that very much,” she manages. “When do you leave?”

He glances up at the sky, eyes tracking some invisible lines there that she cannot see, then as if sensing her discomfort with this bloody tongue, switches into shaky but manageable Sindarin. In her accent.

“Three hours, to meet him as Arien makes her descent.”

“Right.” Not enough time to send him away and expect him to come back for her. She holds the door to her tower open and nods, “Come in, then.”

Her hearthroom is large and empty though well meaning visitors keep trying to fill it with heirloom furniture and hand-knitted quilts. Perhaps whoever built it for her expected her to keep a court in time, perhaps they hoped that she would let some of her cousins come with her into her quiet exile. Whatever the thought process behind the construction, it is not a space made for just one body. There is too much empty space, too many feet of bare flagstones, too much room on the tall walls, too many still white rooms waiting to be filled on the floors above. There are round-walled guest rooms she refuses to allow guests to sleep in, and a low cellar dug deep into the rock that holds enough food to last her three human lifetimes. At the very top of the tower burns a constant flame, a beacon for roaming fishermen. Everywhere are markers of charity- fine Vanyar weaving, driftwood timbers collected by Teleri hands, delicate Noldor lamps that give off pale light at all hours.

Elwing lives on islands between the emptiness— a couch in front of the pile of branches built high in the fireplace, a corner of the kitchen, the very edge of her too big bed, a handful of shelves in the hallway. Even Eönwë, with his broad shoulders and perfect, godly proportions (so different from her husband’s slight frame), cannot fill up the negative space left in her life. Instead he stands awkwardly in the center of the floor, occasionally glancing at the couch or the stairs or the door.

“I have to do some baking,” Elwing told him, trying not to delight in his discomfort. “One of the Ainur would understand baking, yes? Tarts and cakes?”

“I have heard of the joys of milk and honey,” he said, giving her a smile made of alabaster and shell. “Songs have been sung in my presence to the spun sugar confections of Tirion and the fair fruits of Taniquetil. Do you require assistance?”

She’s fairly certain he’s being flowery just to screw with her now. “No. Stay here. Compose songs about fruit or mountains, whatever it is you angels do for fun.”

Elwing goes to the cellar to get the ingredients for royal cake, seaweed pudding, honey candy, and the flat sweet wafers favored by the survivors of Gondolin. When she emerges into the kitchen— offset a little from the bulk of the tower, for fires are no joke even in paradise— Eönwë is waiting for her, looking brilliant and a little baffled by her baking pans. ‘

“You really didn’t have to.”

“Lady who has crossed the sea, daughter of three worlds, it is the least you are owed. I am at your service.”

His sleeves (feathered) are rolled up, and he’s left all his weaponry at home today (perhaps out of respect for her great-uncle’s people, who do not tolerate swords at any hip). Baking every sweet treat known to Sirion that can possibly be sent to space within a handful of hours won’t be easy.

Elwing can cook, the same way that she can hoe a field and mend a fishing net, Sirion was too desperate for any hands to remain still for long, but it’s not her greatest strength. Eärendil was better in the kitchen— making sea salt caramels that the children loved and absolutely indigestible crackers for sea voyages. She can still remember him just returned to shore, still walking with the swaying step of a lost seaman, taking over their crowded little mess to prepare lemon water and thick slabs of dried meat to his exact specifications. A few days before he left, Elwing would invade the space and try to make _lembas_ as Galadriel had taught her so long ago. Somehow her efforts never turned out quite right but they seemed to keep her people happy.

She should make _lembas_ again, she should send it to her husband who is so far from home. But fair as it is, it is no replacement for sweet cakes and the honey, the trappings of childhood.

“Just stay out of my way,” she tells Eönwë, and sets about her work.

He does at first, which is gratifying. But every now and then there is a hand where she needs one, offering a spoon or one of the fancy metal whisks she was told the Noldor designed. After a while she starts giving him instructions. It makes the work go faster.

This can be said for Eönwë— he does what he is told. He is not apologetic or hesitant, he does not wallow or shirk. Elwing, who has had too much of people who cannot meet her eyes, appreciates that. All those who have hurt her should strive to be so honest in their intentions.

“Put those in the oven,” she snaps, “What’s our time?”

“Near an hour, gull-feathered-lady.” She isn’t the one in the room wearing feathers, and she feels tempted to comment on that fact, but instead settles on taking a chunk of honeycomb between her teeth and biting down hard. It was almost too sweet to handle, a perfect, warm memory of summer days and fields of clover. All things are more alive here, and all it does is remind her that she grew up in a world abandoned to die by inches.

The one in her kitchen, bowing his head and acting like her servant, did not raise a hand to help when her people feared orc attacks on their shores. His lord shunned them though the crimes of the Noldor were no fault of the Sindar and not even the fault of Eärendil, born as he was in exile. All of them— merry Nandor, bright Falathrim, her own grey kin, the humans who lived so fast and died so quickly on the Enemies’ swords— had been neglected. And now he has the nerve to try to placate her with cakes and messages ferried to the husband the Valar stole.

Elwing Dioriel is a lady (of a people she cannot protect anymore), a mother (to children taken from her), a wife (of a husband set among the stars while she is left on earth to wait patiently for those they had to leave behind), a ruler dispossessed (last daughter of leaders who would not have died so quickly if the forces of Valinor had their back), but she is alone here and that makes her furiously bold.

Her hand finds its way to a bread knife. She manages to keep herself from brandishing it, and asks, “Why are you here?”

Eönwë blinks, a motion that is more striking simply because she has never actually seen him do it before. It’s strangely performative. “Like I said, a debt is owed to you. Many hurts have been done to you, and little recompense has been offered. I cannot give you weregild for Sirion, for it was not I who sacked it, nor can I offer you the return of—”

“Then why try?” Elwing demands. “None of the rest of the Valar seem to care what happens to we mere creatures of flesh and blood once we have left the sphere of their power. My husband and I crossed the sea and set foot in the forbidden lands of our own free will, and that is all that seems to matter to your master. But you _hover._ Do not think I did not hear stories of you asking after me— the Teleri are terrible gossips.”

The knife is still beside her hand and she is trembling as Eönwë sinks to his knees, penitent. “We do not all speak with the same voice, nor are we all of the same mind. Long did I wish to go to war, to strike Morgoth down again, and long was I restrained from doing so. The more I waited, held back by my lord’s command, the more I saw your people suffer. You did not deserve what was done to you. You did not deserve to be left alone there, fighting a war not of your choice.”

It’s a staggering admittance. It’s what Elwing has wanted to hear for months.

“Keep going,” she orders.

“Fëanor’s folly and Fëanor’s hubris were not your own. No Doom haunted the people of Ossiriand, no fate had been laid on the Aftercomers, yet they died at Morgoth’s hand also. I am reckoned among the strongest of my kin in arms and I will admit, I pleaded for battle for my own sake at first, but I hated to see the suffering and soon those pleas turned desperate. Still I was ordered to wait. Then—”

“Eärendil,” Elwing breathes.

“Long awaited, a star that rose when least expected!” Eönwë’s voice is strong and his words as overwrought as ever, but there is a softness in his eyes.

“And now you go to war.”

“Perhaps, but a war that is greatly needed. At last, I can do something to help those who suffer so greatly at the hands of my wayward kin. When I say I owe you much, lady of feathers and foam, I do not lie.”

Elwing’s husband is away. She misses him dearly. In the soft warmth of the kitchen, surrounded by the smell of baking wafers, it’s all too easy to draw Eönwë to his feet, back him against counter, and kiss him slowly and soundly.

He bends down a little to make it easier for her but otherwise remains passive, untensed muscle giving way at the press of her hands.

“Take that to Eärendil and tell him I love him,” she says when she breaks away.

He looks down at her, curious. “Is this what you need?”

Anger rushes back, even stronger than the temporary lapse in sensibility. She is a lady and a mother, and she will not let herself be a— a charity project. Not for any stranger in this strange, unchanging land.

She steps back, putting a table between herself and this beast who can say exactly what she wants to hear. “You should go. I asked you to wait in the hearth room, not pester me at my labors.”

“You, just—” he makes a vague motion and genuine concern passes over his face. It’s interesting to see emotion so clearly expressed by one of the Ainur, who had seemed so cold as they pronounced judgement. “Is that a good idea?”

It’s not hard for Elwing to slide back into that distant frozen place in her mind she so often frequented when Eärendil was away and there were choices to be made. She can be smooth, unruffled (unlike the feathers on his breast), and speak cooly.

“My husband is gone. I will admit that was… ill done, for one such as yourself can’t understand what missing a family is like, and it’s unfair to place such a burden on your conscience,” she shrugs, “I forgot, I think, that you’re not a real person. But if you want you can talk to Eärendil about it. Until then, please get gone from my kitchen.”

The wafers burn easily so she goes to check on them. It helps hide her furious blush. How could she think— even for a second— how could she imagine this person, of all the useless immortals in this place, could understand the (partially)human heart? Foolish. Childish. Worse than that, poorly planned.

“I don’t— I mean— I want to help I just don’t want—” It’s possible she’s broken one of the Holy Ones, and Elwing does feel a little bad about that. She turns sharply and hopes the glow of the fire behind her disguises the heat rising in her face.

“You said you owe me gratitude. Show it by leaving. I do not wish to discuss it anymore.”

There are no footstep sounds as he goes, a not uncommon phenomenon on these ghostly shores nor one limited to the Ainur. The only sign of his passage is the draft as the door opens and closes, and then the sudden silence where there was once the subtle crackle of godliness.

Elwing burns the tarts and scorches the sugar, but comes out with a passable basket of baked goods (they only have to be better than what’s accessible on the edges of the Void and she’s pretty sure Ungoliant isn’t running bake sales up there) and a carefully handwritten note for her love.

At the bottom she scribbles the news of the children, such as it is, and feels for a moment helpless, for there is nothing that can be said except that she is waiting for them, just as was agreed. She delivers the basket to a contemplative Eönwë, and sees him to the door.

“Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do?” he asks, worried and kind and not at all aware of what it’s like to lose everything. She’s angry again, at herself for ever seeing comfort in him. Even one of the solicitous Teleri would have made a better choice, and most of them are related to her.

“Just give my regards to Eärendil, and ask him when he will return.”

It’s lonely in her tower after he goes, full of the sharp reminder that other people exist away from her. Rather than mope, Elwing goes to feed the gulls, who are always greedy and alive with cawing. Once they’ve squabbled over the last crumbs they gather around her, searching for more to eat or a gentle caress. For such vicious creatures, they can be almost sweet.

She pets their heads obligingly and tries not to fixate on feathers.

 

 

The sky is full of many things, Eärendil has learned, but very little of it is edible.

Water he can find, in the thin upper atmosphere or the thick clouds as he dips low over the Blessed Realm. Water is willing to stay airborne, though not quite airborne enough to reach his highest altitudes. But he cannot survive on condensation and starlight (he is not quite elvish enough for that yet) and so he must be brought food.

When he sinks in the morning sky, trying to touch the very edge of the earth where the great seas boil and freeze at the same time, the little spirits of the air come to him with baskets and whispers of the world he left behind. As he flies over Valinor he makes sure to stay low enough to let the eagles come and parley. When he lingers on the darkest edge of space it is the Lady Varda herself who guides him and slips him small pebbles or bits of dried fruit. (Elebereth, in her fiery glory, does not seem to have the most solid grasp of what elves eat. The eagles at least bring him live fish.)

But these trinkets and small rations aren’t quite enough. Today he’s been promised a proper restocking of his stores, along with new rope and thicker blankets and all the small things that one got to worrying about after a few weeks adrift in the seas of space.

At some point in the future he’ll have to come down again— repair the ship, recaulk the hull (surely even Aulë’s shining creation needs basic upkeep), let his body rest. He is only (half) human and the Valar know this even if they do not understand it. They have asked he stick it out as long as he can, however, and let the star on his brow do as much work as possible. The people need hope again, they reason, as if they understood the hopelessness of living with Morgoth’s sight.

He will be their hopebearer, of course, and he will follow their suggestions and trace the path from horizon to horizon, evening to morning, unceasingly. He would fight Morgoth himself, if he thought it had the slightest chance of working.

In the cold dusk he wishes Vingilot’s bare mast would snap, just to give him a chance to walk among other people and see Elwing’s smile. He doesn’t dare think of the boys, they are so far out of reach, he can’t even fully comprehend it. They will come back if they choose the path of the Eldar but if not they might be entirely lost.

You just don’t bring that sort of emotional energy into the Void, lest the Void spit it right back.

Instead he focuses on Elwing, on his mother, on all the people in Valinor who he knows he will see again, eventually. Timelines don’t matter anymore, they shouldn’t matter anymore, he’s immortal and he _chose this_.

Sometimes in the night over Valinor he can see the fire of a tower, where he's told she now dwells.

“Hail, mariner!”

It is the herald who calls out to him and alights on the prow, but Eönwë is not alone. Other Maiar follow him, bearing sacks of supplies through the air. Eärendil greets them with good cheer and helps them organize the silk bags of soft bread, dried provisions, soap, and fresh fruit to his liking under the deck. There is refuse to take away, for unlike the sea the sky does not swallow up trash. Everything sinks in air. Eärendil is unwilling to throw his rubbish overboard to land where he knows not. Valinor could probably handle some apple cores from great altitude but Middle-Eärth has been through enough.

When he’s sent all the other Maiar off, burdened down and gracious, Eärendil turns around and finds Eönwë, Manwë’s herald and a regular go-between, still sitting at the bow. A smaller bag, one Eärendil did not notice before, is on his lap.  
  
“Did you have news?” Eärendil asks, letting his eyes drift to the mysterious package.

“Yes and no,” Eönwë says and he looks troubled. Still, he holds out the small linen bag. “Your wife sent this to you.”

Eärendil opens it eagerly. Neatly wrapped with paper inside are sweets from Eärendil’s youth, their days together in Sirion, little luxuries no Ainu would think of. It is a lovely gift, made even lovelier by the fact that Elwing is a impassionate baker. Her love is for the gift receiver, not the act of making the gift itself.

 _My best friend,_ he thinks fondly. _You know me better than I know myself._

Suddenly, Eärendil finds himself hungry for any news of his wife. “Did she say anything?”

“She told me to convey her love and regards to you,” Eönwë tells him, eyes as clear as the sky in the morning. They reflect the light of the Silmaril— set upon the bow of the ship and safe to leave unattended here— perfectly. “She also told me to ask when you would return.”

Eärendil exhales through his teeth. “When the Valar deem it wise. You’d know more than me, being Manwë’s first servant. You know, I have heard Arien and Tilion get to pass through the Door of Night each evening and return through the Door of Morning.”

“You are far more important than they,” Eönwë avers. He crosses his legs, a motion that Eärendil has grown to recognize as far more intentional in a Maia than in a human. They use body language like the Nandor used forest sign— to communicate actively rather than passively as mere incarnates did. “Hope star, I must admit, I am burdened.”

“A burden shared is always better.”

“I— ah, that is to say, the Lady Elwing— I do not mean to bring discord into your house but she did— I mean, she kissed me.”

“Oh,” Eärendil looks Eönwë over. He’s well muscled, especially for one of the Ainur, who tend to prefer more wispy frames. The broadness of his shoulders reminds Eärendil fondly of his human crewmates, of the old Hadorian men who had taught him how to fish. (He misses Falathar, Erellont, and Aerandir sometimes so much it hurts). Entangled in what must seem a rather tawdry matter he even seems less distant than usual, more present. There’s a slight flush to his marble cheeks— which like marble are cobwebbed with paler and darker color. “Well, good for her,” Eärendil says, and crosses the rocking deck to clap Eönwë on the shoulder. “Please tell me you didn’t make it too uncomfortable for her.”

“You aren’t upset?” Eönwë double checks.

“No. Elwing and I have a deal. When I’m away we’re both allowed to find comfort where we can.” It’s a half-elven compromise. Elves are needy when it comes to interaction, made to thrive when around others, but they function on a greater time scale than others. A few years without attention are tolerable, that can be survived. Only after decades does the lack of love begin to kill them. Humans are, if anything, more tactile than their elders, lacking the mind awareness of the older kinds. They also feel the need for touch more urgently, with far swifter (though milder) consequences.

Being of both kindred, Elwing and Eärendil are doubly love-hungry. The years do not pass them as quickly as they do an elf, the bite of loneliness is not cushioned as it is for a human. Ósanwe doesn’t help them much either- they need audible words and perceivable caresses.

“What a strange arrangement,” Eönwë murmurs. “I don’t think the people in the Blessed Realm do anything like that.”

Eärendil is prepared to doubt it— in his experience elves are more flexible than they get credit for, especially when they think someone else can benefit from traditionally-marital attentions in a non-matrimonial setting. It was elves long of his acquaintance— like Erellont who had been married years before Eärendil’s birth— who first consoled him, and elves in Elwing’s court who often kept her bed warm. More likely the elves of the Blessed Realm have simply failed to keep their local sky god’s herald abreast of their bedroom activities.

“It works for us,” he says with a shrug. “Sorry if she alarmed you.” It’s not like Elwing to refuse to explain. She did offer quite a few choice words on the morality of the Valar last time they saw each other, so perhaps this is just her being difficult. Poor Eönwë. He’s always seemed like a good chap to Eärendil, he didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of Elwing’s ire.

“Why don’t you come below deck and have some seaweed pudding,” he proposes. “I’d love to have the company.”

It has been awfully lonely here, amid the stars. Beautiful as the heavens might be, full of streams of silver light and currents of darkness too deep to fathom, they are not a place for a human. Eärendil might have been kitted out in elven glass and mithril, taught the star maps by Varda’s own courtiers, and sent out into this endless sea of aether and light with the blessings of the Valar, but he secretly worries that he only half belongs.

“If it would please you,” Eönwë agrees. “The tarts looked especially interesting; a very crisp black texture.”

 

 

Later, as Eärendil finishes unpacking the bag of baked goods, he finds a letter tucked amid wax cloth wrappings. Smiling, he reads it and imagines Elwing’s voice, sharp and clear as a bird’s, in his ear as he does.

She’s well, if tetchy. Boredom is beginning to get to her. Eärendil has faith that eventually her grief will fade and she’ll start participating in the Teleri community more fully, but in the meantime she’s caught between unreasonable anger at those who bother her and the urge to be helpful however she can. The loss of Sirion, long port and shelter, devastated Eärendil. For Elwing it represented more than the loss of a carefully built home. It meant the failure of her long years of governorship, the loss of her purpose for most of her life. She was struggling to find new meaning, and all Eärendil could do was support her and pray Olwë’s kin were persistent.

The small, painfully sparse note about Elrond and Elros hurts most of all. In a way it was better when they were assumed dead. Death for a mortal is a mystery. Certainly there is no Morgoth in death, no cruel Oath-takers. Now that Manwë has said they boys live, they could be anywhere. Orcs could have them or Fëanorians— the best case scenario is that they’re with Gil-Galad but the chances of that seem slim. All Elwing and Eärendil can do is hope.

Eärendil composes a message in return on the back of the letter, then heads to his bathroom to find Eönwë.

Having a decent tub aboard the Vingilot is new. For years the crew made do with a bucket and sea water, but when Aulë’s folk remade the ship according to their standards they’d insisted on including what they called “plumbing”. Eärendil doesn’t mind. It took up some of the empty space in the hull where the bunks used to be, and provides a level of luxury to seafaring (skyfaring) that would have been quite unthinkable to his younger, saltier self.

He’d insisted Eönwë take it first. It was only fair since he was the guest and this was his first time engaging in such activities (a fact that he’d made very clear). He deserves the first chance to get clean.

Eärendil hesitates— is it wrong to burst in on a lover with a letter for them to take to your wife? But no, they’ve already crossed this bridge. Eönwë seems to have finally grasped the concept of an open marriage. Grasped it quite well.

Maybe it was a bad idea to have relations with a Maia. After all, it got Thingol into 200 years of trouble. After a few hours of talking and eating and drinking it had just seemed so sensible. Eärendil, in the course of trying to explain relationships, had mentioned that he missed having other people with him onboard the ship, to lie with and talk to. The eagles and small spirits made interesting conversation but there was no replacement for an arm around your shoulder and a warm body in your hammock. Eönwë, gleaming with Silmaril light despite the fact that it was two decks up, had offered to fix that for him.

After that it had all been a lot of fumbling, and color commentary from a very impressed Eönwë. If anyone ought to have been making awed comments it was Eärendil, who had to admit he was a little dazzled by the angel so abruptly in his bed, but instead it was Eönwë singing his praises.

Then they’d lain and stared up through the glass ceiling in Eärendil’s cabin at the band of dazzling stars on the horizon, accompanied by Tilion’s soft but blessedly distant glow (the moon would never let him hear the end of it). A lesson learned from many a night watch still held true: midnight was much more beautiful when you had someone to share it with.

Eärendil entered the little room, eyes averted for the sake of safety as well as modesty— Eönwë had glowed so brightly when they first met that it had left afterimages on his retinas for hours. That sort of thing made a person jumpy. He found Eönwë stepping out of the tub.

“Best among mariners!” Eönwë said, shrugging back on his clothes. It had been startling to learn that he did wear clothes, rather than just magicing them on. Underneath them lay feathers in odd places but he was mostly normal, like any other well-built elf or strong human.

“You can call me by my name,” Eärendil tells him. “If you’re returning to Valinor I have a letter for Elwing.”

“I will remember that, Ardamír,” Eönwë agrees, plucking it out of his hands. “I should go. Your ship is far from that blessed shore now, these events have taken more time than I anticipated.”

“I hope I didn’t cause any trouble.”

“No. This was… good.” Eönwë smiles, a sharp, half frozen expression. “I will admit, I did not anticipate such a turn of fate but I am glad I have gotten a chance to make your acquaintance better. Would you like me to come back?”

There is something to his posture, his tone, that Eärendil cannot parse. The Holy Ones are so difficult to read. “If you want to come back,” he grants and then gives Eönwë a genuine grin. “You’re good company and it is lonely here.”

“Then you are very brave to face such a trial. I have always admired you, yet now I see you are much more than a hero. You have a human heart, Eärendil of Sirion.”

That was another thing that they touched on as they talked. The idea of being held in high regard by one so ancient and impenetrable is baffling to Eärendil but Eönwë’s admiration seems genuine. It is not so slavish that Eärendil feels uncomfortable being dear with him, it’s just… present, that constant sense of admiration. This last compliment means more than any of his poetic praises.

“Is that good or bad?” Eärendil inquires, laughing.

“I wouldn’t know, I have never been human. It simply is. One last question?”

Eärendil glances at the bathwater and wonders if it’s still warm. “I suppose I can allow it.”

“Should I mention this to your fair wife? The etiquette of such an affair escape me.”

“If you want to,” Eärendil advises, suddenly aware once more of how uneven their footing is when it comes to matters of the heart. Eönwë is far, far older than he is, more powerful and all-knowing than he will ever be, apparently absolutely brutal with a sword, but Eärendil’s understanding of post-coital manners far outstrips his.

For years he was the baby of the Vingilot— it’s captain yes, but also a bit of a young’un as far as the older sailors were concerned. They taught him how such issues were handled on a small boat full of people who cared deeply about each other. Now he has to be more mature, for Eönwë’s sake. If a heart is a fragile thing then the heart of an Ainu must be doubly precious.

“Elwing won’t take offense, I can tell you that much,” he says finally. “If you do choose to talk to her, tell her I love her, please, and that I can’t wait to see her again.”

“Of course.”

In a flash of steel, feather, and light, Eönwë is gone, leaving Eärendil alone with in the gilded sky.

 

 

Eönwë returns to her stoop too quickly.

“I slept with your husband,” he says as Elwing grudgingly opens the door to let him in, since he most likely carries a message from Eärendil.

Indeed, Eärendil is much on his mind, though perhaps not in the way Elwing expected. She stands in the doorway for a moment, dumbstruck.

Eönwë continues. “He explained everything. I apologize for my rudeness earlier, Lady Elwing, and my aspersions on your character. They were unacceptable and must have caused you great distress. I also bring tidings of—”

“Do you want to come inside?” Elwing snaps, glancing left and right as if someone might overhear. The only possible eavesdroppers are a collection of gulls a little down the hill. Even in this place of splendour, so close to Oromë’s domain, she considers the seabirds to be close enough confidants to trust that they won’t tell tales.

Silently, Eönwë nods.

In the hearth room they sit on opposite ends of a low couch, while Elwing makes up her mind about this new development. Luckily for all the other flaws of the Ainur they are extraordinarily patient.

“I am glad my husband has some company,” she tells him after gathering her thoughts. “Arien and Tilion are good folk, yes, but they follow their own paths. I’ll admit I didn’t anticipate this turn of events, yet it gladdens my heart. Eärendil is not accustomed to being alone.”

Nor was she when she thought about it. However her new solitude was more a matter of choice than his. If she truly wished, she could return to Alqualondë and the loud squawking of her swan-relatives. (She loved them dearly. Their experience with grief was just so different from her, it was hard to reconcile. What they had lost would be returned, in time, through the kindness of Mandos. What she had lost might never be regained.)

“No, he has a shining quality to his bearing, as pure as a Silmaril,” Eönwë confides, as if she did not know this about her own husband. On the worst days, he had been the only thing that could block out the terrible light of the Nauglamir from her eyes. “It is hard to imagine him being unloved.”

“Our shining prince!” Elwing laughs, “Last scion of Gondolin, a diplomat from a young age.” At a young age, Elwing had been a refugee. The beauty of elvendom unspoiled that Eärendil remembered was just a dream to her, for Doriath had fallen before Gondolin.

“He told me to bring you this,” Eönwë hands over a letter, her own letter, the paper reused, written over, and neatly folded. “And said that he loves you and cannot wait to see you again.”

She takes the letter and holds it in her lap, unwilling to open it just yet. Such a moment ought to be private, a matter for just her eyes. Eärendil’s love can wait— it has waited far longer in the past.

“I thank you.”

The fireplace is full of driftwood, yet unlit. It burns a bright, deep orange and fills Elwing’s chimney with heavy smoke so she leaves it be most of the time. Now, facing Eönwë, she yearns for a flickering distraction to cast her gaze upon. Bare white walls just don’t cut it.

“Why did you kiss me?” he inquires, innocent in curiosity. No, not quite innocent. Surely at this point he must understand what kissing leads to.

It’s not a question of physical mechanics then. He’s a billion years old, he may understand the physical mechanics better than Elwing. It’s about a far more intangible, emotional element of the exchange.

“I wanted to be known,” she confesses. He deserves honesty for the kindness he gave her husband. Bodies are foreign to the Ainur, or so she is given to understand. Their love is one of the spirit, not of the flesh, and therefore an act of the flesh is alien to them. Grudgingly, Elwing is forced to admit that such a leap of faith, solely in the interest of another’s wellbeing, must inspire faith in return. “Not listened to, not comforted, but seen. You spoke of anger, of will to act, and it sparked something in me.”

“It is that simple?”

“Almost always.” she looks away. “My Teleri cousins know grief keenly, and with them I find much sympathy. However I do not know if we grieve the same way. You, on the other hand, who cannot have ever grieved, speak of what I have lost as if you know it.”

“Oh, I have mourned, lady,” Eönwë corrects. “To be a part of Eä is to mourn, to perceive clearly all that has been lost and all that will never be. I mourn for those I lost to the Dark, and those I could not save, for everything I could not do. Even here, in Valinor, we know your sorrow.”

Elwing bites her tongue, for her first thought is an invective. “Well,” she says, slowly and carefully. “You certainly don’t act like it. Otherwise I wouldn’t have had to cross an ocean to beg for safety for those who have done nothing wrong.”

“Your anger is justified,” he agrees, and that delight sings in her chest once more, harsh as a gull cry. “Much ill has been done to the people of Arda, by Morgoth, by the Noldor, even by others. I will not indict my master, but I know I failed to bring Fëanor to heel and I regret it every day. His power was too great and great evil has come of it.”

She does some mental calculations.

At some point she’s going to need to find someone to take into her confidence, as a lover or as a friend. Even as she wallows in this tower her heart grows restless. Her uncle Olwë has been kind to her and her aunt has been solicitous, her cousins visit regularly and they are all wonderful. In their faces they carry echoes of Doriath, of the fair Sinda who raised her, and she cannot tolerate them for long. Almost none of the Teleri, with their sea salt skin, don’t remind her of home. The Noldor are right out. Her minimal efforts to interact with the Vanyar have been stymied by distance and dialectical barriers.

Eönwë is here. He’s entirely infatuated with Eärendil, which speaks to his character if nothing else. He’s kind as one of the Holy Ones must be and understanding which is a surprise. He knows guilt and worry, the fear that comes from wishing to guard others with your whole life. And the forms he’s taken with her of late have been handsome, in an alien way. The muscles are all function but there’s some delicacy to him as well, with bare skin she can touch and softness to that marble-looking flesh.

“Great evil has come of many things done in good faith,” Elwing tells him and tells herself as well.

Eönwë nods. “So we must remind ourselves that good things are still worth doing.” Now he sounds like Eärendil, full of hope in even the darkest of hours. Optimism is so charming on a person. It makes Elwing, who bears the secret seed of hopelessness beneath her breastbone, where the Silmaril once lay, feel a little hopeful too.

They’re on the same couch, not five feet apart, so Elwing doesn’t have to move much to take his hand. It’s warm with bones and veins in all the right places, so real she could think he was born of this world and not sent into it. His eyes are strange— the irises lack the striation of a human’s and they’re a flat pale yellow that reminds her of an egret— but she has heard stories of great heroes whose eyes glow in battle and so counts this as acceptable.

“I will admit I am unsure of the thoughts of the Ainur on the matter but men and elves mark certain things quite good, when done with goodwill by all.” Carefully she lifts his hand and presses the inside of his wrist to her lips. He has a pulse, thundering away there. How promising.

Eönwë nods again, sagely. “I believe I understand what you’re trying to say, Lady Elwing.”

“Just Elwing works, I think. Under the circumstances.”

“Under the circumstances,” he echoes and moves a little closer.

 

 

In the end he just holds her, for Elwing knows all too well that half-elves can conceive children without the… purposeful focus of their elven counterparts, and despite Eönwë’s reassurances that Maiar are quite infertile unless they really make an effort she’s not prepared to risk it.

There is more than one way to be intimate, she knows this well, and his hands rubbing small circles in the tight muscles of her neck, his uncertain mouth and thoughtful ministrations, are quite enough for her. Much to her surprise, she finds that no small part of her is worried for him. Maia aren’t meant to want these things, to feel the desires of the Children, and she doesn’t want to overwhelm Eönwë when he’s being so kind. Best to be slow, to let him set the boundaries.

After so long with only her own company, this new development is startling. It is not, she realizes as she feels her shoulders relax and her head begin to drop, unwelcome.

When she wakes up the sky is turning deep purple. Eärendil is visible on the horizon, a rising star so far away it stings. A flock of gulls, fulmars, and petrels is clustered on the windowsill, crying for scraps. She has struck up a small friendship with the birds and they have taken full advantage of her charity. For the true seabirds, who live off of fish and crustaceans, she leaves out plates of fine chopped food. The others, all scavengers, are more versatile in their tastes and like to harass her directly for a piece of her dinner.

Elwing begins to disentangle herself from Eönwë’s arms, moving lightly so as not to disturb him. His grip slackens instantly, moving to let her go, and when Elwing turns she finds him wide awake, pale gold eyes staring at her. Of course he wasn’t asleep.

“I’m surprised you stayed,” she says as she stands. “Isn’t there a war on?”

“Most of the work now is in the waiting,” Eönwë replies. “There are arms to forge and men to train. Despite Lady Anairë’s vigilance, the forces of Valinor are not battle-ready yet.”

She finds the bag of seed and dried locusts she keeps for the birds and turns toward the window. She’s wearing rather less clothes than usual but the gulls are mindful of their beaks (Elwing does love the monsters, in spite of their greediness). “When do you leave?”

Though she is barred from Arda’s battles from here on out the war is much on her mind. Brave Gil-Galad, steady Círdan, Galadriel, Celeborn, Oropher who saved her so long ago, any of her people who survived the Fëanorian descent on Sirion— they all need help and they need it sooner rather than later. Elwing needs to know that they will not be abandoned again.

Eönwë hesitates. “Many think it unwise to burden you with such worries. You have been through much—”

“I want to be burdened,” Elwing insists. “I need to… I need to know what’s happening. Even if I can’t help, I need to know.”

The birds eat out of her hand if she lets them. For such a big crowd, however, the best strategy is to toss far and wide. Infighting quickly breaks out among the seabirds, and then quiets when Elwing stares pointedly.

In the background is Eönwë’s pleasant voice, never stumbling, rarely uncertain. How wonderful to be eternal and think faster than you can speak. “The plan is to set sail a year hence. Olwë and his people have agreed to lend their boats, in part at your urging, wise one, yet they need time to prepare. The same is true of Ingwë’s troops and Finarfin’s smiths. Much is aflurry in Tirion and Valmar, preparations are being made—”

“Where do you intend to land?” she demands, throwing seed and insect bits to the screaming horde. “Only the south is still traversable by small groups but with a bigger army… and of course you will want to factor in the great fires and other disruptions of the earth…”

“Do not worry yourself over much,” Eönwë soothes and Elwing turns on him, feeling as irate as a bird deprived of demanded food.

“I have no choice in worrying. They are my people, it is my place. I have been fighting the Enemy since I could walk, seen orc heads brought back and laid at my feet. I know better than anyone on this forsaken shore what conditions you face in the Hither Lands. Why am I sheltered from a reality that was for years my own burden?” In the chilling air her shift is thin, the wind sends it flying about her like froth on the ocean.

“For you have been burdened for too long, and those who love you wish you to know peace. At least, that is what I have been told. It did seem a little suspect at the time, I’ll admit.”

Elwing throws the last of the bird food into the sky and sits in her window seat. “Peace is not for me, not yet. I have too much to live for, too many people I love so far away.” A bird nudges her hand with its head. “I cannot stop moving, herald, not until at least one of my family are by my side again.”

“I know what it’s like to wish for action, any action, that can be taken to improve the state of the world,” Eönwë allows. “I know waiting is far harder than it seems.”

“But you do not know what it is like to lose your children and wonder if you’ll ever see them again. You do not know what it is to be a parent, a ruler, a spouse.”

Placidly, Eönwë agrees, “No. I don’t. I don’t think I ever will. We’re landing at Lammoth, if you must know.”

Lammoth, where Fëanor and his sons first set foot. There’s no answer to that which Elwing can give.

Aware of eyes watching her, she strokes the bird’s head. Dense, waterproof feathers slide under her fingers. She smooths the ruffles at its neck, strokes down its sleek back, and tries not to disturb the vital flight feather. How strange to think that she once wore a shape like this.

If she asked Eönwë could probably turn into an identical bird. He puts wings on and takes them off like an accessory, he flies to places she cannot, flies to meet her husband in the sky. Oh, to be an Aina. It would almost be worth the arrogance that seems to come with eternity.

Of course, she’s already one eighth of the way there. The thought catches her off guard. She rarely reflects on Melian’s gifts unless she’s shooing birds away from the door or making seaweed grow in tidal pools. Her inheritance from her great-grandmother, her grandmother, her father, it is simply a fact of her existence. But Eönwë’s people have almost as much a claim on her as humans do.

A plan begins to formulate in Elwing’s mind, built of optimistic assumptions and great logical leaps. She looks back at Eönwë, still sitting in her bed. “How easy is shapeshifting?”

 

 

Her Uncle Olwë comes to visit a week later. He finds the lowest level of her tower full of feathers, wing bones, and anatomical drawings of birds.

“I see you’ve found a hobby, young Dioriel,” he comments as he pushes through the mess.

Elwing looks up from her work. “I have, uncle. Would you like to sit?” Elven bones do not ache with age as humans’ do. Elwing may not ever hear the word arthritis again. It is still good form to offer a chair to a visitor.

He sits across from her at a table too big for her companionless life, built in hope of brighter days by a Teler craftsman who treated her like a long lost cousin. “You have not visited Alqualondë of late, child. Why are you so distant?” He does not speak of the visitors she has stonily received or the excuses she has made but she knows he is thinking of them.

“I still grieve, Lord Olwë,” Elwing answers politely, for she does love him. He is kind, resilient, and wise— and he loves to talk of seawinds and the ocean deeps. “The city is too busy for me.”

“And us, your family?” he asks, laying a hand over hers.

“You remind me of what I have lost, kinsman. At first, in the joy of reuniting, I did not notice it. But these days it weighs heavily on my heart.”

King Olwë of the Teleri has hair like Oropher, her protector when she was young, though he binds it with silver and pearl rather than ivy. His deep eyes remind her of Galadriel, his smile is like Celeborn, and his manner is old fashioned much like her old tutor who remembered the days when Elwë and Olwë were not yet separated. The youngest of his grandchildren, Elwing’s second cousins once removed, play on the beaches of Alqualondë much as Elwing’s children once did on an entirely different shore.

The similarities, once noticed, worm their way into Elwing’s heart and lodge there, as a cursed blade from Morgoth’s own forge.

“Sorrow is a riptide, Elwing,” Olwë advises, his ancient eyes full of pain. “It seeks to draw you away from safety, away from others who might save you from foundering. You must fight it and find your way back home.”

“I can’t go home,” Elwing points out. She can’t snap and snarl, not at Olwë, so looks down at her worktable instead, searching the gathered feathers for answers. “When grief came to the Teler, you knew that the homecoming was inevitable. I have… nothing here. I have nothing.”

His grip on her hand grows tight. It shouldn’t be shocking that he’s strong— elves don’t lose the power of their bodies as they age— but he’s so sagacious most of the time that Elwing sometimes forgets his wisdom does not preclude power. “You have us. You have your family. Did you not run into our arms and greet us so clearly in the old language of your ancestors, that first day you set foot on land? Did you not laugh and cry with us for hours?”

Elwing speaks— in addition to perfect Sindarin, decent Gondolindrim Quenya, a bit of Hadorian (not that she’ll need that ever again), and slowly improving Telerin— a very old dialect favored in Doriath that is close to the tongue of the old Nelyar. Most of what she can recall is ceremonial phrases, simple greetings and blessings, little of actual use in the day to day. Perhaps one out of ten Teler is actually old enough to speak it. When she first saw Olwë’s people on that silver sand it was the first thing to come to her mind. King Olwë, Uncle Olwë, has never forgotten it. It’s possible that moment of incandescent joy, when Elwing’s heart sung in the seeing of people she’d only ever heard stories about and for a moment she forgot her troubles, set the bar a bit too high.

“I did, and you were all so gentle. You listened to my story and you offered everything to help and I appreciate that.”  
  
“You made a very convincing argument,” Olwë puts in, smiling. “All the speeches about the fires of Morgoth and the loss of all that is good, the avenging of the fallen and the salvation of the lingerers. And then… you retreated from us.”

 _I learned my sons were alive_ , Elwing thinks. _I remembered that I could not save them._

“It all came crashing down at once,” she says. “Like a storm breaking. Once I had no more work to do every sorrow I’d been keeping banked away broke free.” It’s why she’s been so much happier these last few days when she finally had a task again, she realizes. Even the quest to fly cannot bury her anger-horror-guilt but it can come close.

“I know how that can be,” Olwë admits. “Until the bodies are burned and the last survivor given aid, you lose yourself in the act of protecting. A ruler must rule before they can feel grief, but grief comes for all of us eventually. Let us help you, Elwing.”

It’s tempting to let him in, so tempting. Elwing has spoken of her struggles in great words, words meant to sway audiences and shape nations. Her tears then were the tears of a princess. She hasn’t let herself blubber like a child, not since she first collapsed on the deck of Eärendil’s ship still half feathered. Even that outburst was restrained, for the sailors were watching and they needed to have confidence.

But she doesn’t just want bare bones sympathy, the kindness that anyone can administer. She is not a little girl to be comforted by empty words and pitying eyes.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she tells him softly. “I do not think mine is a grief elves know. I think of loss not until Mandos’ mercy but until the end of time.”

Olwë’s silver eyebrows creep up his forehead. “You think we don’t understand that? The pardon of Mandos is not certain. My sons died, I cradled their bodies, and I did not know if I would see them again. Even if I did, there was no certainty they would be the same. Had the fire and the sword torn something in their spirits that could never be mended?”

“Yet they returned,” Elwing reminds him. “They are here and they are whole— they love you still. My people are now across the sea.” Her uncles do not speak of the Kinslaying except in whispers and in whispers they gave Elwing their condolences. The rest of the time, when they are not reminded of that bloody past, they laugh and jest like any other fisherman.

“My grandchildren, Eärwen’s children, were there as well,” His solemnity reaches even his blue eyes. “We did not think we would ever see them again, and for that we mourned. Even now, one still dwells across the ocean and two live in Mandos under the Doom. Only Finrod has been returned to us.”

“But he retur-”

“Ah, Dioriel. Let me finish. My brother dwelt apart from me for so long I thought him wholly lost, a victim of Morgoth’s evil. I mourned for him too, and I mourned with the expectation of an eternity. My friends among Lenwe’s people, those who chose not to make the march, Finwë who will ever after live with Namo— there have been many griefs. There are many people I will never see in this world, and who knows if there will be a next? We elves are not like humans, in that suffering is not of our nature. Instead we have been made acquainted with suffering, by action and inaction, by common cruelty and great love, by Morgoth’s hand and our own. We all know the grief of which you speak.”

Elwing finds her lashes wet with tears so she scrubs her face hastily. “You shouldn’t though. You’re elves, you’re of Valinor. You have eternity.”

Olwë’s eyes cloud with sadness. “And yet we still are rent from one another. Even eternity is not long enough to put together the pieces of every broken heart in Valinor. Even the Vanyar grieve, for the Guests, for us their friends, for the breaking of the world.”

“And the Ainur?” It is only fair that at least one kindred be bonny and free from trouble.

The feathers rustle as he lays his other arm on the table, close to hers. “Certainly. They have lost friends to this war, lost them in a way more permanent than death for corruption eats away at such creatures of thought and fire and makes them mean. Melkor rests heavily on their spirits, and always they lament the fading of what is right. I tell you, Elwing, kinswoman, out of all the creatures Eru gave his Fire not one is free from the pain of losing what they love.”

“I thought—” Elwing finds herself choking up, “I was so tired of having people taken from me. When I made my choice I hoped that being an elf might at least help with that problem. Now I see that was not the case.”

Olwë pats her hand again. “No. No, it doesn’t. But take heart, for you are not alone.”

For the first time in months, he doesn’t remind her of anyone. His hair is curlier than Oropher’s— how had she ever seen a resemblance? His eyes are the same shape as Galadriel’s but they sparkle like the deep ocean where Galadriel’s are a clear white spring. His voice is slower, his smile gentler than Celeborn’s, and his accent is all Alqualondë, breathy where Doriathrin was quick and clear.

Elwing breathes out, letting the visions fade from her eyes. “I see that now. Thank you, uncle.”

“Good, because I didn’t come all this way to leave my niece alone to feather her feelings away. Come outside? Some of your cousins brought an awful board game Oromë’s folk invented; it’s even more cutthroat than the usual fare.”

The usually playful Alqualondë delegation must have stayed very quiet, for Elwing to have not heard them yet. Such strained, frozen silence suggests that people have been far more worried for her sake than she knew.

“Of course,” Elwing agrees. “You are guests and family. Lead the way, uncle.”

 

 

“You didn’t tell me you needed holding.” Eönwë is a great bird of prey on the railing of Eärendil’s ship, a crouching shadow in the night quickly illuminated by the intense light of the Silmaril.

“Hail!” Eärendil shouts and helps Eönwë down to the deck. “Not sure what you mean by that. It’s nice to see you though.”

Eönwë shakes his head, feathers ruffling and retreating. “Touch, humans need touch, elves need touch, and Elwing says you need it most of all. How little loved you have been! Alack that we who care for you were not informed of this vital aspect of life.”

“Ah well,” Eärendil feels a bit flustered. “It hasn’t been too bad. The eagles let me pat them sometimes, even though they think it a bit undignified. Besides, Elwing is really much more sensitive than I am. You ought to be paying attention to her.” For as long as he can remember Elwing has been under stress. Where Eärendil had parents to diffuse the expectations of an adoring population, Elwing had no one. The weight of fallen Doriath pinned her down.

Shrewd eyes size Eärendil up. “You both bid me to aid the other. I’m forced to conclude that you both need much attending.”

It is late evening, and the Hope Star rises in the middle-west for now. Eärendil is still over Valinor, safe as a sailor in the sky can be.

“I wouldn’t say no to some attending,” he agrees. “Come sit with me and watch the sky.”

It is beautiful here, between the gossamer veil of the atmosphere and the cold depths of outer Eä. The Silmaril’s brightness blocks out much of the show but if Eärendil places the gem at the prow and sets a opaque screen behind it he can see the sky glimmer. Varda’s belt of pearly stars is brighter and the Sickle burns. If he stares back down at the earth he can see the green airglow painting the rim of the world. Above the far, far western sea Arien is still setting, leaving a haze of twilight in her wake as she goes to her daily rest.

Eärendil adjusts the ship’s wheel. The Valar give him some leeway and flying low over the far north always makes for prettier sights, as well as bringing him closest to those lands Morgoth holds in his sway.

“Looking for the northern lights?” Eönwë asks, leaning against the great mast, silver and useless for Eärendil no longer travels with sail or oar.  
  
“I should have known not to try to surprise you,” Eärendil laughs. “You’ve been in this sky longer than I have.” He goes and sits next to Eönwë. The maia is warm and even with Aulë’s craftsmanship it is cold so far above the earth.

“Yet I have not spent nearly enough time admiring its beauty. Such wonders in this world of yours.”

Eärendil nudges him. “Your world too. In fact, if I remember my lessons correctly, you helped make it.”

“Only a little. Far greater artists than I did the brunt of the work.” Eönwë’s hands hover over his shoulders, as if uncertain how to proceed. The Ainur may be skilled in many matters but cuddling clearly isn’t one of them. Realizing that he will have to take the initiative here, Eärendil scoots over and rests against Eönwë’s solid chest, wrapping archer’s arms around himself.

“Is this right?” Eönwë whispers, breathing slow and steady next to Eärendil’s ear.

“Yeah. You’re getting the hang of it.”

The ship flies alone. ‘Autopilot’, whatever it is, is a most clever innovation of Aulë’s. Eärendil reckons he won’t have to adjust the wheel for a while yet and the rigging, far more clever and responsive now than it was on the Vingilot of old, is properly oriented as it can be without argent sail to adjust. The stars overhead stay stationary as the ship zips through the air, set points that cannot be changed.

Listening to Eönwë’s breathing, which is far more regular than that of a mortal man, Eärendil traces the stars.

“What was it like to see them newly made?” he asks eventually. “How splendid was their shaping?”

“Far more wondrous than you can imagine. All the world stood still when Queen Varda set the stars in the sky.”

Staring at the Menelmacar, Eärendil can believe it.

A heavy teal glow begins to peek out from over the ship’s railing. The Helcaraxe has decided to cooperate and put on a light show. Such loveliness comes at a cost, however. The buzzing of electricity in the air makes Vingilot creak unhappily. Eärendil jumps up to adjust the tiller then pats the glass deck soothingly. Even remade of glass and metal she still responds to his touch.

Eönwë leaps up and runs to the side of the ship, then points down. “You have found the false dawn, Eärendil the Blessed, the fire that dwells within the air! Come, look!”

Tying down the last rope, Eärendil joins him. Below, above, around, the lights dance, swirling in the air like blood in water. They flash green, pink, and sometimes blue, radiant color far brighter than any hue of the earth.

A familiar crackle starts up, the ambient static of the air reacting to the solidity of the airship. Eärendil puts a hand on Eönwë’s shoulder and turns him, pointing up at the very tip of Vingilot’s mast. Purple ball fire alights there, lightning fingers darting out and grabbing for purchase. The deck is well protected from the elements but the very edges of the ship spark with spirit candles.

“Would that I was still the wind,” Eönwë sighs, wrapping an arm around Eärendil. “A body is lovely, yet even the joy of movement cannot compare to the delight of being a plume of ions in the sky.”

“You know, I always promised the boys they’d see this one day.” It feels strange to talk of Elrond and Elros after so long staying silent, bottling up the love of them out of fear that they were already gone. “They loved stories of sailing in thunderstorms and seeing Manwë’s fire.”

“They sound like canny children.”

“Aye. So smart, so full of life.” They still are full of life, somewhere out there. Maybe they’re looking up at Eärendil and the Silmaril’s light right now.

“What was it like?” Eönwë all but glows with curiosity— or maybe it’s the ambient electricity acting on him as well. “We were not made to be parents— and if you ignore Melian’s experimentation we cannot be. How odd it must be to have a part of yourself living out there in the world, so loved and yet separate from yourself.”

Eärendil shakes his head. “I can’t explain it. I am a father the same way you are the wind. No words can encapsulate the experience, for words were not made to describe the core of our being.”

“But I can describe the wind. It is the heat that never stops moving, the particles full of motion, the constant collision and advance. It is the pressure change, the squeeze of crowding, the dance of a billion-billion actors moving independently whose combined activity becomes a directed gust.” As a sailor who has been stuck in too many patches of becalmed sea, Eärendil has not ever thought of the air as constantly moving. If it is, as Eönwë says, never still, then that explains a lot about the herald.

“Words are not the same as living, though. No words can describe what we see before our eyes—” Eärendil gestures at the fading lights, which are becoming dimmer and dimmer as the Vingilot ghosts over the Helcaraxe and into the barren north where Morgoth reigns. “Or the feeling when you hold your child for the first time.”

The human wise woman who had attended Elwing at her birth (for it had been clear from the very beginning that a conception wracked with human uncertainty might also be subject to human dangers— the threat of childbed fever and slow death by blood loss) had let him hold Elros first, then Elrond. They had been so tiny, eyes screwed shut against the morning light, little hands grasping at the edges of their blankets. Elwing’s features stared up at him in miniature and he’d known that no wonder of the sea would ever match the miracles in his arms. “You never want to put them down,” Eärendil explains, and even as he speaks the words grow weak. “Then just a few years later they are too big to hold and you cannot protect them.”

“They will know of your bravery,” Eönwë promises and somehow the assurance is… reassuring. “They will know what you gave up to keep them safe.”

He may even meet them, if he truly goes to bring Morgoth down. “If you see them in Beleriand you must look after them.” Eärendil tells him. “More than anything, that is what I need.”

Eönwë’s chin hits Eärendil’s shoulder as he nods. “If I have any power,” He certainly does, power seeps off him, a halo of energy less visible than Arien’s but no less bright, “it will be done.”

 

 

“I should teach you how to wield a sword.”

Elwing turns from her feathering to look at Eönwë. Teleplana, her latest cousin-companion-houseguest, peeps out from the kitchen, a spare pair of eyes watching and judging. As nice as it is to have company it does make a good affair difficult to carry on.

“Herald bold, don’t you have reams of would-be soldiers knocking down your door asking for lessons?” He is the greatest at arms in all of Arda, or so she has been told. The war creeps closer every day, the preparations of the assembled host growing more and more frenetic.

“Alas, no. They seem to be frightened of the prospect, afright of what I could not say.” He bows shallowly to Teleplana, “Princess of the silver strand, suffer me to take your lady cousin away from you?”

Teleplana raises an eyebrow at Elwing, who puts down her work and sighs. “I suppose I could spare time for a walk.”

“A great sacrifice of your precious time, I am sure, for you have been a keeper of stars.”

Elwing takes his proffered arm. “And now I am a sewer of feather, a student of birds.” They step out the door. The rocky slope on which the white tower is built glows grey in the twilight. Down the beach pebbles shine damply as the tide pulls out. The moon is high, pale light reflecting on every surface, and if she looks to the west she can see Eärendil ascending the dome of heaven, climbing ever higher and shining down on all free peoples. The flame atop her tower flickers on, casting even more light until the beach is bright as morning.

The two of them wander down the hill. “Yes, I saw your progress. Take heart! Your feather placements are marvelous.”

“But no matter how well I learn the subject, I cannot make the magic work quite right. Birds cannot give me a sense of their own intuitive nature.” It’s frustrating for Elwing, who is used to having talent in such matters. Learning how to speak to birds was simple, learning their shape and practices took only a little time, but try as she might she cannot recapture the sinking shifting feeling of changing shape.

“I fear I cannot help you there. You are a body close bound to a spirit, and I am a spirit that chooses to have a body. The path you take to remake yourself will be different than my own. The power is inside of you, though. Any with deep seeing could tell you as much.”

“Mmm. Ulmo spoke similarly when I asked for his council.” The Lord of the Sea had been kind, kind and useless. He had rattled on about forms most suited, about the tendency of souls to favor certain shapes and about the shape memory of feathers, which regained strength after being dipped in water, leaving Elwing with the idea that she was made of keratin and Eru’s Secret Flame, and that she would become a bird if dunked in the ocean enough (this was quickly proven to not be the case). If Maiar had difficulty translating their unimaginable senses and innate power into common Sindarin the Valar were even worse. It was like asking a fish to explain the tides. The great Song could not be captured in mushy words. If Elwing knew Valarin, the explaining might have gone more easily but she wasn’t prepared to invest 200 years in learning _another_ language. (And one not meant for men to speak, at that.)

“Your holy blatherings about the flexibility of soul to body, body to soul, do not help me know what I need to do to gain control of the wretched ability.”

“You are wise, star of the lost lands, foam upon the gem-strewn beach. It will come to you in time.”

They stop at the edge of the water. Elwing shoulders him playfully. “And when it does, you will take me to see Eärendil.”

“If you need a guide at all!” Eönwë’s Silmaril bright smile dims just a few shades. “Whilst we speak of the matter; I consulted the Lord of the Hunt about your case.”

“Oh? You have been busy indeed.”

“As was said; Ingwion’s soldiers do not seem thrilled to learn from me. They’d rather take lessons from Ingwë’s son himself, or from Lady Anairë’s disciples. I have had more time than hoped. Lord Oromë had some thoughts about which birds would be best suited to flying altitudes high as those your blessed husband reaches. A whooper swan, a bar-headed goose, or a lady’s crane, he advised.”

“I will keep it in mind.” There are swans in Alqualondë she could study. Cranes and mountain geese are harder to find, but she can ask for their attendance if need be. No bird turns up free food. “You must be bored without pupils minding your every word.”

“No, just… unfulfilled. A servant must serve. My lord has set time aside so that I might tutor the Noldor and Vanyar, yet the larger portion of them rebuke my teaching. .”

Elwing thinks it understandable that elves might prefer to learn from their own people, rather than Manwë’s own herald. Talented as Eönwë undoubtedly is, he is not real the way an elf opponent would be. His eyes glimmer with golden fire, his perfect form shimmers. A good teacher knows the limits of a body, understands the way that calluses form, can push you to your limit but not beyond it. Eönwë seems genuinely surprised every time Elwing naps— she shouldn’t trust him at her throat with a sharp weapon.

Immortal behemoth or not, he’s a friend. You have to be friends with people you take to bed, it keeps things from getting complicated.

“If you want you can teach me, though I will warn you I learned long ago.” She and Eärendil had practiced swordplay together as children. Neither of them had much taste for it, but self-defense was a necessary skill in those benighted lands.

“Excellent! Just a sparring match then.” Elwing hasn’t seen him this overjoyed since Eärendil first introduced him to her.

A live blade seems ill advised, so they scrounge up some appropriate sturdy sticks from the beach instead. Elrond and Elros used to play with driftwood swords in Sirion— but Elwing casts that thought aside quickly.

“On your guard, then, lady.”

It’s a brief match and Elwing loses soundly. No half remembered lessons can match the strength of a Maia. Of course, she has other advantages. Ringing the beach, on cliff and rock, are the birds. The watching gulls squawk as the sword is knocked out of her hand, and then descend on Eönwë with beak and claw.

Laughing, he waves them away. “Call off your vassals, Elwing, winged one! It seems they are more loyal to you than to even the King of the Winds.”

She helps him shoo them off, cooing soothing words to the birds in their own tongue until they are assured that she is not in danger. The shrieks of the birds and the Eönwë’s own cries attract an entirely different kind of attention. Teleplana leans out of the highest window of the tower, alarmed by the noise. Though Elwing can only barely see her against the blinding lamplight elf eyes are far keener. She’ll have questions later, though hopefully they can be quickly deflected. Compared to some of her other cousins Teleplana is trusting and seems mostly interested in enjoying the seaside.

Elwing waves to the girl until her worried face disappears, then turns back to Eönwë.  
  
“You’ve made a scene.”

He pets one of the birds, now sitting sedately on his shoulder. “The brave gulls did that. I wonder at their fondness for you. Not even Ulmo’s blessing on your house can explain such faith, for birds are simple and care little for the whims of their creator.”

“They care for food, and I have plenty of burnt bread for them.” There are larger boulders farther down the shingle beach, where the cliffs are still beaten by the living sea and great chunks of striated sandstone collapse into the water. Elwing’s home is built on a dead cliff, unaffected by the waves, and the stones here are small and smooth. Heedless of her trousers, she sits down on the damp ground. After a moment Eönwë sits next to her.

“You speak much of vassalage and loyalty,” she comments as the tide rolls out. “Your rank weighs greatly on your mind.”

“I do not see it as a burden,” he disagrees. “It is a great freedom. Mayhaps I think of it, but only because Lord Manwë has been such a great influence.”

Manwë declared she could never go home again. Elwing squelches the immediate resentment she feels towards him and tries to be charitable.

“Yet always you speak of him. You speak with his voice, even, and do his bidding in the furthest corners of Middle-Eärth.”

“And that is a blessing. I have faith in King Manwë. I speak with his voice because I believe what he says. I wield weapons and raise armies out of faith in him. The Valar tarried long, waiting to combat Melkor, and I’ll admit that tested my faith. Now, in the darkest hour we will ride out to restore the balance.”

“We’ve already spoken of my feelings on that account,” Elwing smooths her long loose pants out around her like a skirt, watching the Teler sea silk glimmer dark gold in the silver light. “Waiting hurt my people more than yours. Did you not wish to set out, to do what no one else could do? Did you not want to help us?”

“Undeniably,” Eönwë responds, promptly. “But the choice was not mine, nor would I want it to be. The one who decides must also be the one to face the consequences of that choice. Great casualties would have ensued from any battle— they still will, if Mandos is a judge, which he most surely is. It takes strength to make the call to go to war. Only a king can shoulder that burden.”

In her time as lady of Sirion Elwing made the choice to send her people to battle dozens of times. They were little skirmishes, yes, facing rogue orc bands or human bandits. The greatest conflict was not of her choosing at all, though it did come down to her choice. What brought the Fëanorians down on the Havens was Elwing and though there were no good choices (to give those monsters, stained in kinsmens’ blood, the Silmaril, would have broken every covenant of goodness left) what had occured would haunt her all her days. Shaking herself out of memories of gore she says lightly, “A king or a queen.”

“A ruler, fair or fairer. That is why rulership is not given or taken lightly, and why any who pursue it to selfish ends will bring doom upon themselves and their people. One such as I could not hope to assume that responsibility. Kingship is a duty whereas service freely given is a gift.”

Despite his effusive words, Elwing still feels baffled. Sure, it would be nice to give up all power for a few days, yet she felt certain the stress of not being in charge would eventually get to her. How frightening to live your life at someone else’s whim, not knowing what battles you would fight next. She would take the endless late councils over the helplessness of servitude. Even living in Olwë’s court had been exhausting, and she had full confidence in his good intent.

“Your words are pretty— they always are. I cannot imagine such certainty.”

“That is because you have ruled. A crown once worn leaves a mark forever upon the brow, a heaviness that cannot be lifted.” He reaches over to run a finger across her forehead. There are worry lines there that will never grow deeper, for elves do not age as half-elves do.

Elwing shivers. “Valinor will be overrun with kings then, if you let even half of them out of Mandos.”

“It may be a challenge,” Eönwë agrees. “I count myself lucky not to have to deal with it. Carrying messages means not having to be responsible for their content.”

“Put like that… I can see the draw.”

Tilion is high in the sky now, a shining crescent thousands of times brighter than Eärendil’s star. Eönwë is glowing, the sea is gleaming, and the birds are pecking at her fingers in the errant belief that she could materialize bread.

If heaviness of heart were the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth, Elwing would already be flying.

 

 

“You know she always wore the Silmaril? All our childhood it was on her person. It was like growing up next to the sun herself. And the older I got the more I felt immune to it? Then one day when we were twenty I looked at her with the Silmaril shining around her neck and I just thought, ‘Oh, she’s more beautiful than any holy jewel. Varda never hallowed her but she glows with the fire of elder days all the same.’”

“She carries hope with her like a lantern. When she speaks the Pelóri shake— her days are filled with glory. Breeze in the morning, a lighthouse on the coast, traveler across sky and sea.”

“Right! She’s just so brave and I love her so much. I bet she’s giving you all down on the ground an education.”

“Little did I think there was left to learn, but Lady Elwing demonstrates otherwise. She went to see Finarfin of the Noldor not three days ago. Now she is at every war council, unflinching no matter what horrors are spoken of. She convinced us to change our landing site to Elgarest.”

“Good. She always did do better when she had a project or two. The cleansing of Beleriand is important to us— our family will not know peace or safety until Morgoth is gone. I know it weighs heavily on my mind.”

“We will strive to do justice swiftly, gloaming star. With your help and your lady wife’s guidance we are sure to succeed.”

“I will say, I’ll miss you when you go. It’s been nice to have company. When do you leave again?”

“Next month. The Teleri say we must let the winter storms subside before we can sail.”

“They’re not wrong there. Winter isn’t bad if you’re heading westward, provided you travel southerly, but I can’t imagine going near the frozen wastes this time of year. The icebergs that hide beneath the water, grinding ships to splinters, the biting cold; it’s not weather for the faint of heart.”

“My heart is resolute.”

“Well of course it is, herald. I’ll make sure to treasure you. What will I do without a courier to bridge the gap between heavens and earth? I’ll have to ask the eagles to take messages to Elwing and Thorondor’s stare discomforts me.”

“It should, he is a mighty spirit and not a beast of burden, however much he sacrifices for what is good and right. With hope and luck there will be another solution by the time we sail. Great plans are afoot.”

“How ominous!” Eärendil says cheerfully and glances down at the painted game board between them. It is made of beech wood and once made up a part of the Vingilot’s deck. Now that the ship is divinely refurbished bits of the old wood have been recycled. “Your move.”

 

 

Valinor is bountiful. No rot mars its waters, there are none of Morgoth’s chemical poisons here. Even in sheltered Sirion you always had to test the seafood because there was no way of knowing what they might have ingested. Digging up great clams from the sand and catching flatfish with your bare hands meant running the risk of illness even the most skilled healers couldn’t sing out.

Here there are no constant algae tides. Any overgrowth or imbalance in the water is quickly identified and proper precautions are taken. The result is a thriving ecosystem just below the surface of the water. There are mussels you can eat without hesitation, clambering crabs, and abalone big enough to feed a family.

(Though she had nearly forgotten how much she loved Middle-Eärth, now she remembers. The salt breezes and great storms, the cool water and soil beneath her feet, all of it she loves and has loved before.)

Elwing is careful with the tidal pools by her home. Even though she is far from any town and even though the beach seems to carry enough food to feed her until the world’s ending, she’s still wary of overharvesting. She is immortal now and this is her home— precautions must be taken to preserve what she’s been granted.

Teleplana, who grew up certain of the sea’s blessings, is more carefree. She still gives thanks to Ulmo for every harvest with frightening fervour but she takes more than is needed and invites guests over to finish off the rest. She shows Elwing how to make dishes with wild rice from inland lakes and lotus root prized by the Vanyar and even helps her find a replacement for the herb Elwing used as contraception (elves don't need such potions but they are happy to assist and do not ask questions about why a roaming sailor's wife might need birth control). In return, Elwing shows her how to catch a venomous, electric stargazer.

They have a particularly good haul today. Mussels, sea urchins, little snails— everything that’s needed for a good pot of hearty winter stew. She and Teleplana crack jokes as they walk back up the hill to the tower. Elwing is in the middle of laughing at a particularly silly one about Aulë and Yavanna’s marriage when she opens the door and sees a woman standing there.

No, not a woman. Not even a female elf. Elwing has dwelt long enough in the Blessed Realm to know one of the Ainur when she sees them. They have a particular illumination, a glow that hits the brain directly without interference from the optic nerve. It helps that this one is perfectly still, watching nothing and everything with eyes that are black from lid to lid like a songbird’s.

“Holy one,” Elwing says softly, handing her basket to a startled Teleplana and approaching the woman. As she moves closer she assesses the Aina intruder’s dress and manner, looking for clues to her nature. Deep purple and blue flowers climb her dress in living vines, her tar black hair falls to her feet and then some. Not Estë, not Yavanna, not Vána. A Maia then and, based on Teleplana’s confused expression, not one of the sociable ones

When Elwing is just a few feet away, the Maia’s reverie breaks. With far clearer eyes, she looks on Elwing.

“Granddaughter.”

“Queen Melian,” though Elwing has met many a denizen of Valinor this one makes her feel shaky on her feet. “I was told you were still recovering and could not see me.”

“My mind has been heavy of late,” Melian admits. “I have neglected you, the first of my descendents on this shore. A rumor awoke me from my healing slumber in Lorien’s garden.”

Elwing can already guess what this is about. “Lana, darling, can you give us a few minutes?”

“Yeah. Yes!” Teleplana stumbles out the door, baskets of seafood still in hard. “I’m going to go look for scallions. Shout if you need me.”

The girl disappears, leaving Elwing alone with her ancestor.

When she was younger Elwing never paid stories of Melian much mind. She had a fondness for Lúthien, the bravest grandmother a child could ask for, and as a refugee ruler had deep respect for Morwen Eledhwen. Melian was harder to project onto. She was ancient and unknowable. Even members of Doriath’s exile nobility spoke of her with fearful adoration. Though she had been named Queen, Thingol’s wife had ruled as more of a distant goddess.

Well, gods won’t scare Elwing. She’s faced her fate twice over.

“Is it about Eönwë?” she asks.

It’s hard to tell but she thinks Melian might be a bit startled. “Your mind is sharp. You know then of the stories that say that you have made a swain of Manwë’s herald.”

“I don’t,” Elwing sighs, “And now that I’ve been told of them I’m going to have to figure out who’s been gossiping.” It’s almost certainly one of the parade of cousins who have stayed with her these past months. Personally she suspects Itilluine, who was entirely too interested in Eönwë’s visits. “The tale itself is true, however. My husband and I are quite fond of Eönwë. He has been a comfort in the time of our separation.”

“Ah. I know of such arrangements, for I lived long across the sea, but I did not think elvenkind partook in those affairs.”

“I’m not an elf, not truly,” Elwing reminds her, refusing to go into the gritty details of her marriage with a relative she’s just met. “Is that the only reason you came, great-grandmother?”

Perhaps she has been spoiled by Olwë’s family, who are endlessly giving. As if aware of how cold she seems, Melian takes her arm and pulls her down to the couch.

“Call me grandmother. It is simpler, I think.”

“Grandmother.” It is not the first time Elwing has spoken that word— her mother Nimloth’s people were present when she was very young and she’s talked about Lúthien before— but it certainly feels new on her tongue.

“I was… concerned about you. Eönwë is bold but not given to overthinking, and he is known to be more physical than many of our kin. A dalliance begun in earnest affection might lead to great pain.”

“I am grown and know enough of my own heart to handle it.” It is strange to talk of hearts with Melian, whose eyes speak of inconceivable grief. Elwing has lost much but she has not had the misfortune to face a husband’s death. Her children, at least, are still alive. It’s more than Melian can say.

Melian stares into her eyes. “You speak true, or you think you do. I will have words with Eönwë as well, but I can’t stop you from living as you please.”

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Elwing orders. “He does not have the experience to be cruel on this account.”

A cool hand takes Elwing’s chin. “Oh, granddaughter. He has far more experience than you will ever know. The fact that it is experience with the shaping of the world and the felling of great foes does not change that. Still, if there is nothing else I will leave you. Estë calls to me.”

“Wait!” Elwing says frantically as Melian stands in a swoop of flowers. “Do you know anything about flying?”

 

 

Some time later Elwing stands at her bedroom window, staring at the beach a hundred feet below.

“Are you sure this is the way?” she asks one last time. Though the cliff in Sirion she had leaped from ran up against the cobalt sea she still feels a frightening sense of deja vu. The white limestone of her tower, carried in from a far off quarry, is too similar to the soft chalk of that seaside point. Even the golden sunlight (a rare treat in her grey northern home) reminds her of a bright day of blood and red banners.

“My daughter Lúthien  once turned into a bird as she toppled from Hírilorn. The power never came to her again for she preferred concealment even in her darkest hours. Yet ever the potential dwelt within her. Is it not in you too?”

“I don’t know.” It is upsetting to admit but Elwing is not fully confident in herself. In spite of all her research, her long conversations with birds and hours spent studying hollow bones and down feathers, the idea that she can fly still feels far fetched. That one brief fugue is like a dream.

“It is,” Melian promises serenely.

“If you say so,” Elwing leans out a little and then pulls herself back in sharply. The fall is too great, the danger too real. She does not want to test Eru’s offer of immortality, not before she has a chance to see her sons again.

“Think of what you will become,” Melian’s voice is high and sweet, as if a nightingale were granted speech. “Know it, down the finest detail. Don’t you want to see your love again?”

That pushes Elwing over the edge. She might be cautious, a reticence shaped by years of war, but she holds within her a deep well of spite. No absent great-grandmother is going to condescend her.

Still, to become a bird again sounds entirely too upsetting. Some trauma should not be idly replayed. Rather than try for a bird she thinks instead of Eönwë’s heron wings, of Manwë’s great eagles, of the albatrosses who sometimes nest nearby.

Elwing visualizes hollow bones, air-sacs and barred parabronchi, and blood dense enough to carry her through the outer air. She imagines great wings, white like a swan and grey like a gull, pale as the Vingilot and silver as Eärendil’s eyes.

She jumps and doesn’t fall.

 

 

The Void is above, the green and blue plate of the earth below. Suspended between Eärendil feels the melancholy he’s come to associate with his lonely watch. This duty is his own and he’d never forsake it but it is not meant for any of Ilúvatar’s Children.

Now it is sunset, the time when he draws closest to the earth that he loves. That is some comfort. Whatever dark reaches of the outer world he may traverse, he always returns back home.

Sunset and sunrise are also when he is most likely to have visitors. Eönwë, who squires for the sky, has been absent of late as the hosts of Valinor prepare to depart. Others have tried to make up for the emptiness. Ilmarë and her mistress sometimes meet him in the far reaches of outer Eä, Queen Varda glowing with Eru’s own light. The eagles are most solicitous, the little spirits of the air mischievous.

Now as he falls through atmosphere, entering the regions of the world where the air is sweet to breath and the cold does not burn, he senses none of them. Tonight he might be alone.

That’s fine. The Silmaril at his brow is bright and he can weather any storm. He’ll keep his post through the long night and maybe sing some sea shanties. They are weaker without crew to sing along but Eärendil has a loud voice.

“Hail, Eärendil, of mariners most renowned!”

The wheel almost slips through Eärendil’s fingers. He catches himself and anchors it with a loop of rope.

“Eönwë! I thought you were fielding a mighty host.”

“I am and I have, jewel of the western sky. All the forces of Tirion and Valmar depart two days hence, and even you may be called into battle. Before such sorrows come to pass we have a gift for you.”

The use of ‘we’ tips Eärendil off instantly. Elwing is involved in this plot one way or another. He expects a bottle of honey wine, a package of the latest novels out of Alqualondë, a small token of the binding love they share. He doesn’t expect Eönwë to shout over the side of the boat, or for Elwing to swoop up into the sky above him.

The Silmaril light falls on her form as she drops to the deck. She wears the blazing garland like a crown, never overpowered by the ancient radiance only accentuated. Her hair is shadow dark, her eyes are gleaming, and her smile could be a star of its own.

Eärendil stays frozen in shock as she wraps him in her arms. It’s only her laughter that brings him back to earth. She sounds the same as she always has, like a dying auk. It’s an ugly laugh, an honest laugh, the most beautiful thing he's ever heard.

“Elwing, Elwing!”

She presses her lips to his ear. “I refused to be long parted from you. Your fate is mine, your journey is my journey as well.”

Her body against his is solid and soft. There are white feathers caught up in her hair. For a while they just stand like that, swaying as they hold each other.

“May good fortune carry you through the sky. I will take my leave” Eönwë murmurs, as if unwilling to break the scene but also unable to go without the requisite niceties.

Elwing and Eärendil lock eyes. They might not be talented at deep ósanwe but they share the bond of parents, which allows some things to pass unsaid.

“Stay with us,” Elwing offers. “For you will be going soon to a place where we cannot follow.”

“I do not wish to intrude,” Eönwë insists, backing away.

“We will have many evenings together. We can abide some company tonight.” Eärendil extends a hand even as he spares a glance for the sky. Tilion is a terrible gossip; luckily he isn't too close tonight. “We don’t offer this lightly. Stay, friend.”

Their dalliances have always been limited to their separation— but they’ve never shared a partner before. Eönwë has been a great ally, a connection in a time apart, more than a lover, more than a companion. This place, this situation, is as new as Elwing’s shining wings. It demands new approaches in love.

“One night before the war,” Elwing agrees. “If Lord Manwë can spare you.”

Eönwë glances over the side of the ship, evaluating the world below. “Valinor sleeps. The soldiers take their well earned rest. I do not think I will be missed.”

“I say to thee, we would miss you.” The words sound clumsy in Eärendil’s mouth. He is a prince and not unused to grand declarations, of quests, of fate, of dire intent. This one is more personal than any oath laid down for the Two Kindreds.

“Splendour of the Children of Eärth, boldest voyagers of your age,” Eönwë always falls back on flowery endearments when he’s anxious. It’s shockingly Childlike. “I would miss you too.”

Elwing beams. “We understand each other then. Now come before the twilight fades. We have much to share.”


End file.
